Poor Yorick
by Idlesana
Summary: Sherlock and John's first meeting could not have happened under more romantic circumstances. It's no wonder Sherlock would fall for John. Quite literally.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I make no money with this, swear!

Aah, it's been a long time since I wrote anything. Been into BBC's Sherlock Holmes lately, hurdur. Needed to write something, anything. So here is a silly little Johnlock. Ta.

* * *

When Sherlock and John meet for the very first time, the setting could not be more romantic. Later, when Sherlock will enlighten John of this fact, John will snort, but the spark in his eyes will not fade, never. He might not agree, but John will always understand.

So then, they meet. It is on a particularly dark night in London, a heavy mass of nimbus having plagued the island nation for days on end, managing to dampen every last street corner with their presence. Sherlock likes these kinds of nights. The darkness and rain seem to heighten the intelligence of criminals and often lures out the brilliant ones who know how to feed all the unwanted evidence to the weather. This might make the police moan from the hindrance, but that is only because they fail to see the beauty of a challenge which Sherlock is willing to welcome with open arms.

And so it is that there has been a series of murders, the rainfalls finding the bodies faster than the police ever could, all the while Sherlock gets closer and closer to the killer even as the rains refuse to grow lesser and lesser.

But this is nothing new, no. Sherlock, you see, _always_ catches up with the killer and has done so now as well. They are on a dirty alleyway, surrounded by more hastily made graffiti than they are by brick walls, the smell of rotting garbage mingling with the mist that the rain has brought with it. The only lighting available to them is the one that the main street's streetlamps let slip to the alley, but it's not much. Sherlock is blind, alone on an alleyway with a serial killer.

And then there is John. Sherlock would say it is the moment he feels all the signs of physical attraction. His breath gets caught in his throat and his legs feel weak. His heartbeat fastens. It skips a beat of two. Pupils, they dilate. Sherlock can't think straight. There is a funny little tingle at the tips of his fingers.

John would argue that it's because the killer has Sherlock in a chocking hold with no intention to let go until Sherlock dies. That is why John's first instinct is to draw out his slightly illegal gun that he is not supposed to be carrying around, aim for the killer and shoot.

Sherlock gasps for air, his head pounding mercilessly from all the blood that is rushing in all at once. He falls onto his knees despite his struggles to stay upright, but Sherlock does not mind, compared how the killer lies down fully, a trickle of blood flowing down his forehead from where the bullet entered his brain.

"Oh God," says John.

Sherlock's brain is still a bit disoriented, all kinds of thoughts flying here and there as he tries to find the appropriate thing to say.

Like, '_Who are you_,' maybe.

Or, '_I'm with the police_.' A lie which he can back up with a card he has snitched from Lestrade.

In the end he thinks it's safe and simple to go with a dull, '_Thank you_,' but what his strained vocal cords croak out instead ends up being, "There's no God."

John's first answer is silence, a bit of a stunned one, maybe. Then he shrugs and says, "Each to their own," lowers his gun and suddenly remembers his situation again. "I am getting into trouble for this, aren't I?"

Sherlock pays no attention to the muttered question, assuming John was doing that thing where people were talking to themselves. And they call Sherlock insane! At least he has the poetic sense to talk to a skull.

"I wanted milk, not trouble!" John wails, clutching his hair to add to the drama. Then he takes a good, pleading look at Sherlock. "You wouldn't mind if I just ran away, would you? No, that would be bad, very bad indeed. They'd catch me and there'd be more trouble. Are you all right by the way?"

Halting his fingers from trying to soothe his tender throat, Sherlock blinks at John.

"Yes," he manages to answer. "I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine," John counters, his brow furrowing in concern.

"Here, let me take a look," he says as he traipses over to where Sherlock is still on his knees and crouches down in front of him.

It is a moment too late when Sherlock realises that his body is not usually this trusting of strangers. The neck is a weakness, one that had just been attempted to put into good use. But John's cold fingertips are already pressing gently against his jugular, the skin feeling rough and worn as they move against Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock wonders where his reflexes are. His hand should have been in a fist the moment he saw John approaching. There should have been a chart of weaknesses printed on his retina and he should have used every single one of those against John when he stretched out his hands towards Sherlock's neck.

There are but two things in the world that Sherlock trusts. Firstly his mind. Secondly his instincts.

Yet here he is, trusting John without a question, having his spine be rattled by the mere touch of his fingers and watching in a daze as their vaporizing exhales of carbon dioxide meet and merge in front of them.

"He was a serial killer," Sherlock says, suddenly having an unbearable urge to say something, anything.

John lifts his gaze from his throat and looks surprised before visibly relaxing some of the tension from his body. "So he wasn't a very nice man. That's –good."

Sherlock swallows. "Yes."

Letting out an amused chuckle, John withdraws his hands, failing to take notice how Sherlock's body unconsciously follows them a fraction of the way. "I suppose we'd better call the cops, then," John says, clearly uneasy about having to deal with all this.

"Don't worry, I'm with the police," Sherlock says quickly before John manages to take out his mobile phone and turn himself in. Upon the look he receives from the other Sherlock feels the need to specify his claim a bit. "Sort of."

John only raises one doubtful eyebrow.

"Look," Sherlock sighs out, feeling a bit nauseous as he stands up. "Here," he takes an ID from his pocket and gives it to John to examine.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? Wait, the guy on the photograph looks nothing like you!"

"Of course he doesn't." Sherlock rolls his eyes at John for being so obvious.

"That's the guy whose job it is to catch that-" Sherlock points with a thumb behind him where there is a dead man still lying on the ground. John makes a face. "-man over there. I'll send him a text of the body's whereabouts so that he and his incapable team can pick it up and finish the case."

John opens his mouth and then closes it. Opens it again and manages only a small confused noise. Meanwhile Sherlock sends his text.

"Where did you even get this?" John finally manages to ask, though his priorities seem to be a bit lacking.

"I pickpocket him when he's being particularly dull. You can keep that one, I've plenty more."

Putting his phone back into the pocket of his coat, Sherlock looks expectantly at John.

"You coming?"

"Coming where? There's a dead body for God's sake! And I don't even know who you are."

"Away from here, obviously. You said you don't want any trouble and neither do I. As I said, the body will be left in the care of the good old Detective Inspector who should know how to do his job. "

Sherlock speaks with speed, the sirens of the police already echoing in the distance. He walks past John towards the main street, turning to look at the other before making his exit out of the alleyway. "And I am Sherlock Holmes. It is very nice to meet you…"

"John," says John, still looking a bit abashed by it all. "John Watson."

"John," the name rolls along Sherlock's tongue and out of his lips as he carves it in the stone walls of his palace so that he'll never forget. "Will you follow me, John?"

John will and he does without another question.

They end up sharing a very cheap hotel room for conveniences sake. Lestrade knows where Sherlock lives and he does not want to be found right now. He insisted John take him home with him, but John only muttered his refusals and general unwillingness to even return home. So they compromise, avoid surveillance and pay with cash.

They both shiver uncontrollably as they stumble into the room, soaked to the bone as they are. John ushers Sherlock to take a hot shower, which he would have gladly done if only the shower would have provided him with some heated water. Instead he exits the bathroom feeling as cold as when he had entered it.

John stares at him for a while before bursting out laughing. "Aren't we a miserable sight?"

"I'm glad one of us is amused by the potential hypothermia," Sherlock says, teeth rattling and voice so dry that he wishes it would have an effect on his damp hair. His words do not lessen John's amusement as the man continues to giggle. With a grave sigh, Sherlock sets out to decide which bed to slump into and make his apparent displease known, but takes notice that one of them has been stripped off its sheets entirely, while to other holds double the amount it's supposed to have.

Following his gaze, John has the decency to blush a bit, replacing his laughter with slight embarrassment.

"Well," John clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck in a nervous manner. "This night is already so weird and it's really very cold so I thought-"

"Body heat." Drawing his own conclusions before John has time to say it, Sherlock nods in understanding. "You do this often in the army? The desert must get awfully cold during the night," Sherlock chats as he settles underneath the blankets, making sure to leave room for John on the narrow bed.

"Not that often and we don't really talk about it afterwards. Sorry, how did you know?" John asks as he settles down as well, trying his hardest to avoid touching Sherlock in any way.

"It's what I do," Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly.

"You just know things, is it?" John sounds amused again, turning to lie on his side so that he can look at Sherlock who is lying on his back, sparing but a sideway glance at John and his question.

"I practise the science of deduction," he says, turning to face John fully. "I pay attention to detail and draw out the right conclusions."

"Elaborate," John asks of him, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"I knew you were in the army because of the weapon you carry, your instinct to shoot first and ask questions later and from how you were more concerned about getting in trouble than you were of having just killed a man. You have a tan but judging by the lines of it it's not intentionally gotten, so it suggests that you've been sent to a sunny country recently, probably to be of service. With today's politics I'd say either Afghanistan or Iraq but that's not relevant. Your concern about my injuries and skills in examining them tell me you're not just a soldier, but also a doctor. Now then, would you like me to move on to your awkward relationship with your relatives or have I gotten you convinced?"

There's still a coldness nesting in his bones, holding on stubbornly even as the blankets and John do a good job in warming his surface. But then a smile slowly crawls on John's lips and cheeks and eyes, his breath hot enough to make Sherlock's face flare and insides melt when he whispers, "That's amazing."

And it is amazing how utterly warm such a small praise could make Sherlock feel. Again, his body draws itself unwittingly closer to John's, and a bit hesitantly Sherlock asks, "Should we kiss now?"

"What?" John laughs out, his smile refusing to go anywhere. "I'm not into men, sorry," he says and doesn't sound sorry at all.

"I'm not into anyone." Sherlock says thoughtfully, nodding as if he understands John's reasoning.

They stare at each other in silence. John looks like he's trying to think, but Sherlock can't hear the sound of it so he supposes it is a battle lost for John. The atmosphere around them seems to get thicker and when Sherlock sees John swallow he does so himself as well.

When John lifts a hand to rest on Sherlock's cheek, he doesn't draw away from the touch. He can feel a thumb caressing his temple and it makes his eyelids shutter and lips part a fraction to let out a sigh. John comes nearer, his eyes heavy, slowly leaning in closer and closer, halting a little by the surprise of the feel of Sherlock's breath against his lips, then continuing to lean in the rest of the way.

Sherlock has never been kissed before. It had never seemed relevant that he do so.

Now though, with John here, it seems very important that they have this. For as long as he has John here, he would have this because it's John, John, _John_ whose hand slides from his cheek and into his hair, caressing the spot where his spine meets his skull, a connection that is so easy to twist out of place but Sherlock doesn't care because John kisses him harder when Sherlock touches him in the exact same place.

John pulls him forward and Sherlock forgets what it was like to feel cold. He forgets his deductions that to be this close to someone brings nothing but inconvenience.

John draws back to get a gasp of air and to stare at him after he's had that, blushing a bit and then looking at the wall like it was sporting a tapestry with an interesting design.

"That was, um- _Well_. Maybe it's best if I just don't comment on it."

"Yes, maybe it's better that way," Sherlock says, sarcasm leaping through his kissed lips.

John dares a glance at him, embarrassed by his arms that are still wrapped around Sherlock but doing nothing to remove them. "It seemed appropriate," he whispers as if he needs to explain why he would kiss Sherlock like that.

"It _felt_ very appropriate," Sherlock assures him, making John snort against his neck. Together they start laughing like tired fools.

And in the morning Sherlock will only feel like a fool when he wakes up to find John gone.

* * *

To Be Continued...

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** This is but a fanfiction, agreed?

* * *

The second time John and Sherlock meet, they are on a date. John has recently met this completely decent and admirable woman named Tiffany. Or Anna was it? No, no, she is definitely a Tiffany. John had seen her on Victoria Station upon arriving back to London from Afghanistan, had thought that she looked awfully pretty sipping her latte and reading a trashy romance novel and had thus decided to go up to her and ask her out on the spot. It would appear that she was quite taken by his uniform because she had answered with an instant, "Yes."

Sherlock on the other hand is having a lovely date with a murder suspect. She likes her men young and gorgeous because they make such pretty ornaments when tied up and starved to death. Sherlock happens to be a little bit of both; apparently gorgeous and a bit starved-looking. And she loves him. Honestly _adores_ him enough to slip something with hallucinogenic effects into his drink at the right moment.

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to notice that he's been drugged. Oh, she is _daring_, doing this to him in a public place; a mediocre restaurant with plenty of customers to play witness. Sherlock's hand feels awfully clumsy as he makes an attempt to stand up from the table, the surface of it now a bit difficult to perceive. He stumbles, knocks tableware down and gathers stares. In the distance he can hear a waiter ask the lady if everything is all right, to which she replies that her husband has just had a little bit too much to drink and it would be very kind indeed if the waiter could order a taxi for them.

Sherlock can appreciate her brilliance. He can applaud her for her acting skills and avoidance of justice. But that does not mean that Sherlock wants to end up being tied up in a basement where no one can hear him scream until there is nothing else left to do but to die. So he makes another attempt to stand up, somewhat succeeding in it and walks out of the restaurant's door with as much dignity as his uncooperative limbs let him have.

Behind him he can hear the sound of her stilettos as she rather lazily follows his poor attempt of an escape. With every step she takes, the sound echoes in Sherlock's head, his mouth filling with the taste of fear and defeat as the drug crawls its way deeper into his brain.

The streets are filled with grey mass of people with red eyes that stare at him, some of them having brought huge beasts with raspy breaths and a hunger for his flesh. '_It's not real_,' Sherlock knows and tries to convince his mind so. It doesn't work. The fear remains, his mind telling his body to survive this even though the only threat is his mind itself. After all, Sherlock has never been very good at taming his racing thoughts.

Then, just as she is about to reach her victory and hand Sherlock his defeat, there is John. He shines through the mass of unknown faces and monsters, completely normal with his smile and stupid, comfortable looking jumper. The moss and ivy that has grown against Sherlock's palace wall on which he once upon a time carved John's name onto dry up and drop down as Sherlock finds himself gravitating towards the man.

"John," Sherlock barely manages to slur out, grapping a hold of the front of John's jacket to keep himself from falling to the ground. John reacts by taking a hold of Sherlock's shoulders to help him stand.

"You're… Sherlock. What is going on?" John asks after giving himself a second or two to remember Sherlock's name and to gather his wits enough to handle the general confusion. The lady friend that is with John looks at them funny.

"This. Is not what it looks like," John says to her upon seeing the funny look.

"Take me home, John," mumbles Sherlock, ignoring the look altogether.

"It's all right, John. I'll just…" She says.

"No, Amanda, this really isn't-" John tries to save face.

"Katy," she says dryly, after which it's just Sherlock and John standing in a sea of ill meaning monsters.

Sherlock doesn't know what his own date is up to, but he assumes that she daren't approach now that he's clinging to John like he would to a safe base in a children's game. Though this is not a game meant for children, and thus is not being played by any rules so he takes a careful glance. She keeps her distance.

"Thanks for that," John sighs in annoyance, the heat of his breath making Sherlock's ear tingle as he leans his face further into John's neck.

"What's with you then?" John asks after realising just how little Sherlock seems to care about the inconvenience he has just caused him.

"Hallucinogens," comes the mumbled reply from somewhere near John's collarbone. "Could you hail a taxi for us?"

The two sentences are so far apart in content with each other that John's mind shuts down and he can do nothing but blink. For a little while nothing makes sense. _Right then_, John thinks. Apparently Sherlock has some drugs in his system. He's also in need of a taxi for obvious reasons if reflected to his stage of being. The situation leaves room for many a question, but considering this is the man who was being killed and for whom John had killed upon their first meeting, he acceptes that the norm would be _bizarre_ and leaves the questions be.

Getting them a taxi proves to be easier than getting Sherlock into the taxi, but they finally manage to slam the doors of one shut, Sherlock leaning heavily against John as he throws a final smug look at his previous date who now looks something between furious and frightened. He doesn't believe in luck, but maybe it had been on his side tonight.

Seeing John open his mouth to say something stupid, no doubt, Sherlock quickly mumbles his address to the cabbie.

"Don't you mean _the nearest hospital_?" John asks pointedly and unnecessarily loud, the cabbie looking at them with worry and confusion.

"I've no need for a hospital," Sherlock slurs, covering John's mouth with his hand to ensure the taxi would take him where he wanted to go. "Don't listen to him. I'm the one who's paying, after all."

Still the cabbie looks unsure, though he starts the car and starts driving.

John bites his hand.

"Ouch."

"That was the most half-hearted cry of pain I have ever heard," John says upon being able to speak again, though he looks like there are plenty of other things he wants to say as well.

"I think you should stop being a stubborn git and go to a hospital. In fact, I don't think that, I know it. I am a doctor."

"Exactly. You're a doctor. It's why I'm taking you home with me."

It's not the reason why. Not really. He'd take John home with him anyway, any day.

"Wait, how come I'm coming home with you?" John asks as if it isn't obvious by now. "No. I am not going home with you. I set out to have a lovely date with a lovely lady-" Sherlock snorts at the irony of how John had failed to even remember her name while Sherlock's he had recalled in a matter of seconds, "And God forbid I end this day by dragging a half delirious man to his bedroom."

"I am perfectly capable of dragging myself into my bedroom. I might need help with some stairs along the way, though."

John opens his mouth as if to argue, but instead a long-suffering sigh is what escapes his lips. The man looks out of the window and creates such a silence that dust would start to settle around them if Sherlock didn't so something about it.

"You're welcome to stay, of course," he offers, unable to see John's face but more than capable to notice how his body grows rigid.

"Why would I want to stay?" John mutters to the palm of his hand against which he is leaning as he stares at the streets they drive by.

"Because you didn't remember her name," says Sherlock, leaving it at that because to him it seems pretty obvious.

But John doesn't quite get it, turning to look at him with an, "Excuse me?"

Sherlock can only roll his eyes.

"You didn't remember the name of your dame so she was of no importance to you. Yet still you went out on a late night date with her, which is quite curious of you, John Watson. Pray tell, what were you trying to achieve?"

John snorts, amused now. "I think it's pretty obvious what I was aiming for."

"And those are the words of a gentleman."

"I can be a very gentle man when the need arises," John assures with a boyish grin.

"And since you obviously saw no need for it tonight it leaves me guessing that you weren't after her company as much as you were for a place to stay the night other than your home."

It's not like he'll ever hate or regret being right, because there are just plain facts about life that one cannot change with any amount of sentiment. But the way the truth makes John's smile fade as he turns to look out of the window again, Sherlock doesn't like.

It serves as a cruel reminder to him that John, in all his attractiveness, is a blatantly normal human being with mundane problems, like, say, _alcoholism_ if statistics were of any use.

It leaves Sherlock annoyed, and he huffs out an unsympathetic breath of air and sinks down the seat of the car with a pout on his face.

How can John's problems be so utterly _boring_, he wonders.

Beside him, John watches his display of irritation with disbelief, his mouth agape so that he cannot swallow the first giggle that escapes his throat. A fit of laugher is soon to follow, and when there seems to be no stop to it, Sherlock finds himself truly worried.

"What is the jest?" He asks, raising one eyebrow instead of his whole body that has now sunk as low on the seat as the laws of physics allow.

"My God, you must be the biggest bastard I have ever met," John says while trying to breathe, "But fine. I'll follow you home."

Sherlock tries to give a nod, though it proves to be difficult when his chin is already pressed against his chest.

John can later on try to explain that he's just tired of people trying to understand when all he wants is someone who doesn't care. Sherlock can't say he understands, but he's rather sure this was not what his brother meant when he chanted his mantra about how caring was not an advantage.

* * *

The stairs to his apartment turn out to be quite a challenge. John literally has to drag him half the way up, and when they arrive to the fourth floor, the pain John's back is in makes him moan miserably. His hands too uncooperative, Sherlock demands John pull his keys out of his pocket.

"Which pocket?" John groans to exaggerate his unwillingness to do as he was told even if he had little else choice.

"I don't know. A pocket, John. _The_ pocket."

That is how John's hands end up groping Sherlock in the most savoury places, his hands becoming clumsier and rougher in touch as his search forces him to move into more intimate regions.

"There's no key!" John hisses in panic, the tips of his ears burning red when Sherlock's neighbour who owns too many a cat passes them with Tesco bags in hand and a judging look on her face.

"No key?" Sherlock wonders. "Ah, that's because I left the door open. Yes. Well then, let us go in."

John, it turns out, is a hard man to please. He is not impressed how Sherlock had left his front door unlocked for anyone to walk in, to which Sherlock could only say that were someone to invade his home he'd figure out who it was and make them very sorry about it indeed. The state of his apartment does not appeal to John either, as the doctor looks at the unsanitary state of it with a frown on his face and a small tut on his lips.

"Please let this be the last time I follow a guy home," John mourns, dragging the palms of his hands across his face in disbelief.

Not pleased with John's wishes, Sherlock decides to train him like a dog. Being an army man, surely John would understand and be quick to learn. A little bit of positive rewarding and he'd be following Sherlock home more often, attaboy.

Sherlock stands tall, his legs a bit wobbly but he cares not. Sometimes he's seen a rescued lover run up to their counterpart, their reunion filled with kisses and embraces that make little sense to him. Once he had caught his brother sighing to a four o'clock housewife drama where forever parted childhood lovers meet again at long last, the episode going with a name '_Never to be Parted Again_,' and the characters sealing the promise it with a kiss.

This much data he has, so he will act accordingly, lean down to John and give him a kiss so sweet that he would perhaps take his words back.

That was his plan, anyway. Instead, his knees buckle and John turns his head so that it is not a rewarding kiss that happens, but rather a painful collision of front teeth and cheekbone.

"Oww! What the hell are you doing?" John glares, holding his hurt cheek and taking a step away from him.

"I was trying to kiss you, obviously," huffs Sherlock, upset at his own failure.

The bluntness of his words make John fluster, whether it is from embarrassment or anger, Sherlock can't be sure nor does he give much care.

"I- you- okay, listen. What I told you last time still stands. I'm not into men, alright?"

"But you had no trouble kissing me back then," Sherlock points out, more than willing to use everything about John against him to get what he wants.

"T-that was- I thought I'd never…" John is finding the floor awfully interesting to look at. Sherlock takes a look as well but finds nothing of interest save for an experiment he was sure had started out in the kitchen sink but had now crawled its way into his small vestibule.

He doesn't like people acting like this. They make such bad liars. He makes a mental note to teach John better.

"You thought you'd never see me again?" He offers helpfully.

"Well, yes," John admits.

"Curious?" Sherlock asks with a dark, teasing smirk, taking a step closer and lowering his voice to a level that usually gets confessions out of the most concealing women. "Or was I just too much to resist?"

And then John startles him by lifting his gaze from the floor, his eyes impossibly blue when he looks at him eye to eye, not to lie, but to tell the honest truth. "The latter."

He's not used to people telling him the truth other than to express their obvious dislike of him. Granted, he ought to stop pissing people off or quit conversing with criminals had it bothered him the least. But he's already dug knives into John's scars, had him kill and run with him, and here he is now confessing that it's not going to drive him away. That it's what makes him _desire_ Sherlock.

Not sure how to deal with all the honestly and acceptance, Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and says, "We should probably have sex now."

A statement that tears a sudden howl of laugher out of John.

"No," he says. "Absolutely not."

"Why?" Sherlock frowns. "Did you not just admit to feeling some level of attraction towards me?"

"_Because_," John states with amusement, "this is beyond absurd, and you're on drugs, and again, I'm not gay."

"Your reasoning is dull," Sherlock concludes, giving great interest to how John grabs his arms and starts to pull him to where he probably assumes his bedroom is.

"Come on. I'll drag you to bed but that's all the action you'll be getting tonight."

"And what about some other night?" Sherlock daren't hope but asks anyway.

John throws him rather carelessly on his bed and looks down at him with a playful smirk on his face, like he doesn't trust Sherlock to be coherent enough to understand or later on remember what is going on.

"Ask me again under normal circumstances and I might consider."

"Why," Sherlock smiles and makes sure he'll never forget what John has just said, "Not only did you remember my name, but you also refuse to take advantage of me while I'm drugged. You really can be rather gentlemanly, my Dear John."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He hums as he closes his eyes, his bed sheets rather dirty and smelly but undeniably soft and warm.

And he can hear the smile in John's words as he gets the most affectionate, "Shut up," anyone has ever said to him.

* * *

Morning brings unwanted sunlight and an arm on his shoulder that keeps shaking Sherlock without any sympathy.

"John?" He lifts his head from his pillow, displeased and feeling ill all over.

"Close, but no. It's _Greg_ as I have told you several times before," says Detective Inspector Lestrade beside him, that aeons old frown of worry and disapproval on his face which he likes to wear whenever Sherlock has used illegal substances.

"I came to ask you about the psychopath woman since you apparently saw no need contact me." The man starts to rant, going on and on about stress and responsibility or the lack thereof when it comes to a certain Sherlock Holmes.

But Sherlock dismisses all this, because John is absent and instead he has this old man with greying hair and inability to crack such an easy case.

So with a, "I'm quitting," Sherlock slumps back down onto his pillow, still ignoring Lestrade even in his growing panic that Sherlock means his career as a consultant rather than his illegal substance usage. After all, he needs to be completely coherent the next time he happens to bump into John, be it by cunning or by accident.

* * *

To Be Continued.

**A/N:** I really don't have any plans for this story. I just kinda like the idea that John and Sherlock meet earlier than they do in the series. And that John perhaps gets introduced as Sherlock the forever-alone's counterpart. Yeah. That'd be nice.

Or you can leave suggestions what you'd like to see happen? Maybe? I dunno.

Anyway, thank you for reading and feel free to comment and criticize!


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